


Harry Potter and The Series of Surprises

by saucy5sauce



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: And shows up for a date with someone he hasn't seen in years, Harry is gay and lonely, M/M, Years after the war
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-21
Updated: 2015-11-21
Packaged: 2018-05-02 17:27:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5257286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saucy5sauce/pseuds/saucy5sauce
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“<i>You</i> are my date?” It’s Saturday night and Harry is wearing his lucky socks. Somehow, he does not feel lucky.<br/>“What, Potter, you’ve forgotten my name already?”<br/>“How could I, Malfoy?”<br/>“Call me Draco. This is a date, after all.”</p><p>-<br/><i>Some might say the first surprise was that Harry Potter signed up on a magical dating app. But that's just the start of it all.</i></p><p>
  <i>It wasn’t that Harry was hopeless when it came to finding his own dates. It’s just that everyone else was so eager to set him up with their best friend’s second cousin or whatnot, and he was happy enough to avoid the initial asking-out. (He’s 23, but he’s already been turned down too many times by straight guys.)</i>
  <br/>
  <i>It must have been that they both filled out the wizarding dating application wrong. Because Harry finds himself sitting across the table from a dashing and apologizing Draco Malfoy. Who insists that they sit through the first course, at least.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Harry Potter and The Series of Surprises

**Author's Note:**

> My first Harry Potter fic that isn't completely AU! Enjoy! ^.^

 

# Harry Potter and The Series of Surprises

### FRIDAY NIGHT

“Ohh, Harry,” Hermione says when he shows up at the townhouse her and Ron are renting.

“It’s Friday night, I know,” Harry says. “I thought I could watch a movie or something with you guys?”

“Of course, Harry,” Hermione says, her voice laced with sympathy and it’s worse than all of the other times she has felt sorry for him, because this time there is no one trying to kill him.

“‘Ello, Harry,” Ron calls from the other room. “Want to watch Qudditich?”

“Not if the Cannons are attempting to play,” Harry responds.

Hermione rolls her eyes. “Don’t get him started, won’t you.”

“Last year was rough for my team, I know, but now that we have McGibbons--”

“Even he can’t help your seeker. How many games has it been since he has caught a snitch?” Harry says. “Even I never had such a legendary streak, and I was beat out of the sky most games.”

“Just you wait,” Ron says. He’s already pulling up the game; there’s a simple spell to watch the games on any surface as long as you have a radio to play the sound. “I bet the Cannons are already-- Oh.”

The sitting room’s wall goes from a soothing, rich purple to an aerial view of a quidditch pitch. The score proves Harry right-- the Cannons are losing by a nasty 31 points to 2.

Ron slumps on the couch. “Mione, can I get a beer?”

“Ron, you’re a wizard. You’re plenty capable,” Hermione responds. But she gets him a beer anyway-- she’s too fond to back up her threats.

“How domestic,” Harry mutters.

“Hey, you’re the one who invited yourself over,” Ron points out.

Harry frowns. “Sorry if I’m hurting your Friday night plans.”

“Nonsense, Harry, we didn’t have plans. Besides, _Ron_ ,” she shoots her fiance a look, “Harry is always welcome in our home.”

“Just don’t show up on Tuesday nights, if you know what I mean,” Ron says with a smirk.

Harry high-fives him and Hermione goes pink.

“If you would just let me set you up, Harry…” Hermione says.

“Fine,” Harry says.

“What was that?”

“I said fine. I’m done with asking blokes out and being turned down.”

“You’re the Chosen One,” Ron says, shaking his head. “I don’t understand how someone can turn you down.”

“It’s this concept called being heterosexual, Ron,” Harry responds. “You might have heard of it.”

Ron slaps him on the back. “Sorry, mate,” he says before going back to yelling at the TV.

“This is so exciting, Harry!” Hermione is grinning. She’s already composing a list of potential suitors on a magical, never-ending legal pad. (Ron says that it’s one of the reasons she went into law, but then Hermione starts listing the “real” reasons, which is a conversation that also has no end.)

“My love life,” Harry muses, “is interesting to you.”

“Have you heard of Magical Dates?” Ron asks. “Hermione, tell him about MD.”

* * *

Ten minutes later, Harry is still confused.

“Why don’t wizards just use normal dating websites? Why did they have to make their own?”

“Because it takes Hogwarts Houses into consideration,” Hermione points out.

“And wand length,” Ron adds.

Harry and Hermione roll their eyes in unison.

“So, will you try it?” Hermione asks. “I hate seeing you so…”

“Alone?” Harry says. “Unhappy? Make me sound more appealing, I dare you.”

“I was going to say _unfulfilled_.”

“Lovely. So, where do I sign up?”

* * *

The application is fairly simple. Favorite wizarding game (question 16), favorite class at Hogwarts (question 10), current job (question 2), and, _really_ , wand size (question 33).

He calls Hermione to ask how she would describe him (question 22). She lists a bunch of words that he cannot spell and that are not listed as options.

“Er, thanks,” he says. He clicks _brave_ and hopes the sorting hat knew what it was doing.

At the end, there is a section titled: _What are you looking for?_

 _Men_ , Harry clicks.   _Something fun_.

 _Love_.

Surprise me, he thinks.

* * *

Harry wakes up in the middle of the night by the sound of his phone buzzing. Wand ready, he almost falls out of bed trying to reach it. He’s in the second bedroom of Ron and Hermione’s townhouse, and this is not how he should be spending his Friday nights, really.

_Magical Dates has found ...1…  PERFECT match!  Click here to plan your first MAGICAL date!_

Harry does as the app says. Because really, how bad can one date be?

It won’t tell him the name of his blind date, but the animated wand spells out the message: _Compatibility rate of 98%! It can only be TRUE LOVE_.

Harry dreams of a dementor claiming that he can give a true love’s kiss. His voice is a mix of all of the Slytherins Harry has ever known, and when Harry wakes up, he finds himself wondering how that crowd spends their Friday nights.

* * *

The first time Harry saw Draco Malfoy after the years of being enemies at Hogwarts, after the war, after everything, it felt like he was seeing an ex-boyfriend.

Harry had been going to the bank at Diagon Alley and the goblins were giving him a hard time for the whole dragon thing that happened in his 7th years.

“Potter,” a familiar voice said, and there he was. His blond hair seemed to stand out against his pale skin, and his eyes were looking straight at Harry, who just gulped.

“They let you have an account here, I see,” Harry said. He wasn’t trying to be mean; he was just surprised that he had been on probation from Gringots, and someone who had the dark mark hadn’t been. (Did he still have the dark mark? Harry wondered.)

“My family has had accounts here for centuries,” Malfoy said, but he didn’t sound smug; he sounded ashamed. But he couldn’t be; that didn’t make any sense.

That was the whole encounter. Harry left the bank feeling like he needed to pinch himself. He hadn’t really seen Malfoy in so long, he half wondered if he had dreamed the whole thing.

Besides, he had been dating Ginny for most of his time at Hogwarts. Somehow, it felt different seeing Malfoy now that he was openly gay and single. (Why had he never noticed how tight Malfoy’s turtleneck’s were and how his pressed pants outlined a fit pair of legs that must have been hiding under a robe for years because Harry had never noticed them.) (It felt like seeing a different person. Like knowing someone well only for them to be a stranger years later.)

Harry had called Hermione right away. She didn’t seem as excited or worried as Harry was, but then again, Malfoy had never been _her_ archenemy.

“I’ve heard he’s working in research for the Ministry,” Hermione had said. “I’ve read some of his paper, of course, and some are quite remarkable.”

“He’s, erm, researching what?”

“Potions, of course. He didn’t get through 6th year because of cheating, like some of us.”

So she was still slightly bitter about that. (“It’s not that I’m bitter,” she would have said, “I just think it was _wrong_.”)

Anyway. It had been years since Harry had seen Malfoy. And if the first time felt like a bad dream, then the second one felt like an out-of-body-experience.

* * *

### SATURDAY NIGHT

He looks formal, even in a collared shirt and a neat, dark blue robe. He is looking down at the table, and Harry thinks about walking away. This has to be wrong. Some mistake has been made. His true love match, his 98% compatibility, could not be… _him_.

Draco Malfoy looks up and Harry finds himself taking steps towards him.

His eyes are like two stars in a constellation and Harry has never noticed the few moles that are sprinkled on Malfoy’s face.. or maybe they are new. Maybe they are just another thing that has changed.

Harry feels like everything has changed. But he never thought that everything would lead them here… to a fancy restaurant in London, sitting across from each other. (If he would ever sit down, that is.)

“ _You_ are my date?” It’s Saturday night and Harry is wearing his lucky socks. Somehow, he does not feel lucky.

“What, Potter, you’ve forgotten my name already?”

“How could I, Malfoy?”

“Call me Draco. This is a date, after all.”

“Draco,” Harry tries the word out. “I don’t know how I feel about that.”

“Malfoy reeks of stuffy parties and terrible people. If I could change my name, I would have.”

Harry is too curious not to sit down, now.

“Why can’t you?”

Malfoy --Draco-- looks as if he could do anything. He has one button undone and his fingers lightly holding a glass of wine. He smirks up at Harry and _is he dreaming?_

“Wizards don’t. You’ve still got a lot to learn, I see. Those muggles really did a job on you.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” Harry finds himself saying.

“Well then, tell me more. Or should we order?”

“I- erm- We’re going through with this?”

Malfoy (he can’t think of him as Draco) pouts. “You’re going to walk out on our date already? At least stay for the free bread.”

Harry is speechless, but that doesn’t seem to bother Malfoy.

“There’s so much to say. What would you prefer, Potter, small talk or should I just get right to apologizing?”

“Apologizing?” Harry asks.

“Yes. For believing my parents’ ideas, for siding with You-Know-Who, for hating you from the start. I don’t, anymore, in case you’re wondering. I’m actually really quite sorry.”

“Sorry?”

“Yes. Was the list not extensive enough? I’m sorry for calling you _Potty Potter_ in the second year, I’m sorry for being so determined to beat you in Quidditch... though I rarely did, actually, so I’m not quite sorry about that.”

“Are you being serious?” Harry asks. “You’re always so serious.”

“It’s the effect of the wine, I suppose. But I am seriously… sorry.” He’s not teasing anymore, Harry can tell, because his eyes are looking down as if he can no longer face Harry. Which is ridiculous, because that would mean Malfoy is… _scared_.

And maybe he is. Scared that Harry won’t accept his apology, scared that he will jump up and start screaming “Death Eater!” Scared that he’s still the enemy.

“Okay,” Harry says. “I don’t know if I forgive you, but okay. Good on you for apologizing.”

Draco smiles. And it’s unlike anything Harry has ever seen.

* * *

Harry spends the whole dinner wondering why he spent so much time _plotting against_ Draco instead of _staring at_ him. When his lips aren’t turned up in a snare, it’s almost distracting how pretty he is.

He looks like a winter day. That’s the only way Harry can think of it.

He looks like the winter frost, the chill in the air, and the smell of the heat being turned on after summer.

Harry eats free bread and Malfoy only teases him twice about it. _(Is it teasing if it’s from you old enemy?_ Harry wonders. _Was it teasing all along?_ )

“So… a dating app, huh?” Harry finds himself saying. (He wasn’t planning on speaking to Malfoy ever again, honestly. He wasn’t planning on staying through two courses or making small talk, but he finds himself doing both anyway.)

“The magical community is spread out across the United Kingdom,” Malfoy says this it’s obvious and (even more surprisingly) like he has a prepared answer. “Besides,” he says, his gaze sliding to where his steak tartar sits untouched, “I couldn’t keep letting my mother set me up.”

Harry laughs so hard he snorts. (It’s been awhile since he’s been on a date.)

“You think that’s funny, do you, Potter? I’d love to see you try to go on a date with Pansy Parkinson. A bit like talking to a snake, that one.”

Harry raises an eyebrow. “You must forget how well I can charm snakes.”

Malfoy rolls his eyes, then chuckles. “Never thought I’d be sitting across from you, Potter, joking about this.”

“I know what you mean,” Harry says, “But I’m glad it’s happening, you know?”

* * *

They compare bad dating stories. Strangely enough, both men have gone on dates with at least two of the same guys.

“Ravenclaws,” Malfoy jokes. “They really get around.”

“The wizarding community must be smaller than I thought. I never thought I’d do a full tour--” He stops after realizing that he’s said too much.

But Malfoy is already smirking. “A full tour?” he asks, twirling his spoon in the last bit of Harry’s pasta. “Do tell more.”

“Fine,” Harry sighs. “But we’re gonna need a cuppa.”

“How about a pint?” Malfoy asks.

“That might be the best idea you’ve ever had,” Harry says. “Not that there’s much of a competition.”

Malfoy turns up his nose, and Harry feels like he’s back at Hogwarts again, across the potions lab table from the blond-haired boy who has always had it out for him.

(But Hogwarts has always felt like home. And this date hasn't been laced with malice. It hasn't been half bad, actually.)

“I’m craving something like a butterbeer,” Harry admits.

“Lightweight much?” Malfoy asks, but he’s already searching for the nearest pub on his phone.

“Can I?” he asks, hesitating with his hand inches from Harry’s. “Apparition is the fastest way…”

Ron would call Harry bloody mental. Hermione would sigh loudly. Anyone in their right mind would not trust Malfoy.

But Malfoy has apologized tenfold times tonight alone. And when he teases Harry, it makes him feel something he hasn’t felt since his Hogwarts days. (Something like _chosen._ )

“Yeah,” Harry says, “You can.”

Malfoy takes his hand, and starts whispering the proper enchantments. Within a second, they are gone.

* * *

Malfoy lets go of Harry the minute that he feels the solid ground under his feet.

Harry always expected his enemy to be cold. (He’s always half-wondered if the Malfoy’s were vampires; they are as pale as parchment.)

But Draco’s hand was warm, his face tinted by the artificial moonlight that is a London street light.

“I’m sorry,” Malfoy mutters, and Harry wonders if he has ever heard the boy speak without malice, other than tonight. Tonight, his voice has been clear and his eyes have begged sincerity. And Harry doesn’t know what to think.

“Sorry? Erm, you’ve said that already.”

Malfoy looks annoyed. The familiarity of that look, even on a face that has been worn by the years and the weather, makes Harry smile to himself.

“I can’t do this,” Malfoy says finally. He looks at his hand, like Macbeth in that fateful scene. He looks at his hand and Harry wonders what he is seeing.

“Draco--” Harry starts, reaching for his hand. For the warmth, he tells himself. Because he’s lonely.

“I’m sorry,” Malfoy repeats.

“We both signed up on a dating app, Draco, we both want something. Why can’t we be each other’s something?”

“You will always be something to me, Potter,” Malfoy says before he apparates, leaving Harry with cold hands to wonder what he said wrong.

* * *

Harry doesn’t go back to Ron and Hermione’s townhouse. He hasn’t figured out what’s he’s going to tell them and he doesn’t know how to lie.

He goes back to his flat, to be greeted by one of the kittens Hermione rescued a month ago and handed out to anyone who will take one. (“I’m a single bachelor,” Harry had said. “What will people think if I have a _cat_?” “When have you cared what people think of you?” Hermione had responded.)

Harry falls face-down into his couch. He moved it from 12 Grimmauld Place when he finally got his own place. (He had been seeing some block, then. The small flat had felt cozy, not suffocating. It hadn’t felt this _quiet_. He hadn’t been able to hear Malfoy’s voice running around his head, not in years.)

* * *

### FRIDAY AFTERNOON

It takes Draco six days to work up the courage to call Potter. He wants to apologize. Say what you will about his parents; they may have raised him to fight on the wrong side of the war, but they did not raise him to be rude.

He has almost called this number so many times, the numbers seem worn. (It’s his imagination, Draco tells himself. Just his imagination running all over the fucking place.)

Potter answers on the fifth ring. (Stupid magicians, Draco thinks, taking technology for granted. Technology, which is practically magic.)

“Who is this?” Harry says. He sounds worried, like He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named might be the one on the other line.

Draco feels the urge to roll his eyes. Which is usually how he feels, around Potter.

“Draco. I wanted to apologize.”

“You wanted to-- what?”

Draco grits his teeth. Potter is making this harder than it should be.

“Apologize for leaving like that, last weekend. It was rude and you-- you deserve better.”

Draco can hear someone yelling at Harry on the other line. One of the Weasley’s probably, he thinks without malice. (He has wasted too much time insulting them, honestly. He hasn’t nothing bad about them left to think.)

“What do you think; do I deserve another date?” Potter says. Because after all of these years, he can still surprise Draco. Because he can still make the blond’s boy’s heart race.

“I don’t know,” Draco responds. “What’s in it for me?”

“My company, of course,” Harry says without missing a beat. “Plus, we never made it to the pub.”

“Well then, Potter, next time you’re thirsty, you know who to text.”

Harry laughs. “If that was a pun, Malfoy, it was a bad one. This is just a second date, you know.”

“Thirsty for a pint,” Draco clarifies.

“Good,” Harry says. “So I’ll text you, yeah?”

“I don’t know. Will you?”

“I will!” Harry is still laughing. “I’m at, erm, work though.”

“Oh,” Draco says. “I’m sorry.”

“You can stop saying that,” Harry says. “Really.”

“But I’m sorry.”

“It makes me feel badly to hear that.”

“So I can stop saying it? Really?”

“Really really.”

* * *

Harry waits until his meeting is over to text Draco. (No one told him how much of being an Auror, or having any position in the Ministry, is going to meetings.)

He tells himself that he’s not going to think of the double-meanings, he’s not going to let his life turn into a bad pun, and he texts Draco: **thirsty AND bored. sos?**

Draco takes a few minutes to reply, and Harry finds himself thrust into the desperation of checking his phone every two seconds.

Draco takes his time texting back, and Harry isn’t going to think about how adorable it is that the other boy is scared of saying the wrong thing. (To be fair, it’s not like Draco has a good track record.)

 **How strange-- the Chosen One, needing to be rescued** was Draco’s reply. And it was quickly followed by, **I’ve always loved a damsel in distress.**

 **i’m insulted. apologize immediately** , Harry texts, hoping Draco will realize that he is just teasing.

**I thought I was done apologizing?**

**u are. i’m just making sure u’r paying attention.**

**Well then. Did I pass your test?**

**yes. more to come. over drinks sunday at 7?**

**That works for me if it works for you.**

Harry resisted the urge to roll his eyes and how formal Draco was, even when texting.

 **as long as u’r buying,** Harry texts back.

 **Lol** , Draco answers. **We’ll see about that.**

* * *

Harry tells Hermione. He has no choice about it, in the end.

She calls him as soon as his shift ends.

“I’m trying to decide if it’s creepy or flattering that you know the exact minutes that I’m free,” Harry says as soon as he picks up.

“Har-ry,” she says in that soft, silky voice that never dulls the fact that she’s telling you that you’re wrong about something (or sometimes, everything), “You’re free anytime after 6.”

And now his closest friend is telling him that he has no life. Lovely.

“Well,” he says. “I don’t think you called to make me feel badly.”

“Of course I didn’t! I’m just wondering if we should expect you for dinner. We’d love to have you, of course; I can tell Ron to order some of those kung pow noodles you like.”

“Don’t,” Harry says. “I have plans,” he says. (Of course, he made plans on the night Hermione and Ron are getting take-out from his favorite restaurant. Maybe he can ask her to order it again next week. And this is the problem-- he doesn’t even live on his own, and he doesn’t have enough of a life to get mad at her for making him feel badly.)

“Ohhh,” she sings. “With who?”

And Harry finds himself telling her. He tells her everything, backwards, starting with the fact that he is seeing Draco Malfoy for their second date, they’ve been texting, and ending with how strange it was to see him the first time.

Hermione is quiet for a second. “Well,” she says. “I’m surprised, I guess, but in retrospect, it’s not really out of nowhere, is it?”

Harry grits his teeth. Leave it to Hermione to analyze something as ridiculous as _this_. She might as well get into the math-- how many people are wizards and around the acceptable age for Harry and living in London, not to mention _gay_.

“It _is_ out of nowhere,” Harry says. Because it is. (Isn’t it?)

“That last year at Hogwarts,” Hermione says. “Did you ever think about what it would have been like if we had gone back? With Malfoy and such?”

“Not at all,” Harry says honestly. But thinking about it, now-- that year had been strange for so many reasons. Was one of the reasons that it was the first time since Harry was 11 that he hadn’t been around Malfoy, aware of the other boy’s presence?

“He was part of your life-- in the background of mine and Ron’s, yes, but he was a main character for you,” Hermione explains. “You were always going on about Malfoy, how he was up to something, out to get you--”

“Which,” Harry says, “he _was_.”

“Yes, most of the time. But even when he wasn’t-- Harry, don’t you see? Draco Malfoy was your first crush.”

* * *

### FRIDAY NIGHT

Hermione tells Ron about Harry’s date with Malfoy. She explains her theory while magically spelling the Chinese take-out into serving bowls and onto their plates.

They eat sitting down at the little table that is crammed into the corner of their kitchen. It’s the same table from the tent they stayed in during their last year of schooling, when they were on the hunt for Horcruxes. Hermione hadn’t particularly liked the table then, but now, it reminds her of everything they have gone through to get to this point; it reminds her to be thankful. (And she used a wood sanding spell on it, so the color is much prettier and it is charmed to no longer give them splinters.)

“So,” Hermione says. “What do you think?

“About?” Ron says, staring right past her at the plates of food. She sets down the mu shu pork in front of him and gives him a minute to start eating. (She’s learned, over the years, how to live with boys. It’s all about reorganizing their priorities so that you are at the top of them.)

“Harry and Malfoy. Harry and Draco. Dating.”

“ _Dating_?!” Ron’s eyes look as if they might pop out of his head. “Blimey. I did not see that one coming, I didn’t.”

“Honestly,” Hermione sighs. “He used to talk about Malfoy so much, it’s a wonder I didn’t realize it sooner.”

“But-- Malfoy was a Death Eater.”

Those two words still make Hermione shiver. (She’s never been fearless, not like Harry. She’s smart enough to know when to be brave. But mostly, she’s just smart enough to know when to be scared.)

“He _was_ ,” she stresses. “He’s not anymore. Harry said something about him being genuine and apologizing.”

“Genuine,” Ron scoffs. “Malfoy would be genuine when he was flushing your head down the toilet. He called you--” Ron pauses. The words are still too powerful, too prevalent even after the war. “He called you such horrible things. How can you forgive him?”

“I haven’t. But he hasn’t apologized yet, to me. And if he does-- I guess we’ll see what happens.”

“There’s all this dark stuff in the past,” Ron says. “But honestly, if someone will make Harry happy now….”

“Who are we to stand in the way?” Hermione finishes.

Ron may be awkward still, he may focus on all of the wrong thing sometimes, but then he says something deep and spectacular and Hermione feels like she’s the lucky one.

* * *

### SUNDAY NIGHT

Draco gets to the pub fifteen minutes early. He plans his schedule every day, in fact, so that he will always be early.

He shakes hands with the bartender (who looks suspicious after, like he’s not sure what Draco is doing in his pub), and orders himself water, for now, because he doesn’t want to assume Harry’s drink order and doesn’t want to start without him.

The door opens and Harry breezes in. The room seems to change around him-- the collective crowd seems to be a happier one, somehow, and the pub doesn’t seem so _dark_.

Draco watches as Harry searches the faces in the room. He waits for Harry’s eyes to land on his face, and then he holds his breath and Harry smiles at him. (This is an alternative reality, this is.)

“Draco!” Harry says, sliding onto the stool next to the blonde boy. (Is this real?) “Can I call you that?”

“Of course. I waited to order,” Draco says. “Are you hungry?”

“Always,” Harry says. He turns to the bartender (who is in shock that he is across the counter from Harry Potter-- if Draco hadn’t known that this was a wizard’s pub before, it was obvious now) and orders “a thing of sliders, your best German beer, and for my friend here...”

“The same.”

Harry turns to Draco. “You might as well get something different to eat. I warn you, I like to share.”

“In that case,” he says, “Let’s try the special fries.”

The bartender wanders off and Draco sighs.

“The way he was staring,” he says, “You’d think that he could see your scar or something.”

Harry’s hair is neatly combed over the scar, which has faded over the years, according to the _Where Are They Now_ article Draco had read in the Daily Prophet earlier that year.

Harry pushes his hair to the side, causing the back part to stick up, and he looks so much like the boy Draco had known at Hogwarts that his breath catches in his throat.

“This scar?” Harry says. “Even you can’t look at it without having a reaction.”

“That,” Draco says, “is for a different reason.”

“Which is?” Harry says naively.

“Memories,” Draco says shortly, “of Hogwarts and such.”

“Yes. Do you have a lot of those? I feel like our experiences were so different.”

“And yet we both ended up here,” Draco says.

“ _Out of all the gin joints in all of the world…._ ”

“I don’t understand the reference,” Draco says.

“Casablanca,” Harry says. “It’s a muggle movie.”

“Well then,” Draco says with his usual air of superiority (though this is its first appearance tonight).

“You should give it a chance,” Harry says. “You might be surprised.”

“I don’t usually give things chances,” Draco says. “Once I’ve made up my mind, that is.”

“But the mind is an ever-changing thing,” Harry frowns. And they aren’t talking about movies anymore.

“That’s if you think people can change.”

“Of course they can,” Harry says. “Look at you.”

Draco winces.

“You don’t know anything about me,” he says.

“Hey,” Harry says. “Are we fighting again? Because I don’t want to go home before I get a drink.”

“Sorry,” Draco says. “Do you want me to check on the food?”

“No,” Harry says. “I want you to tell me things about yourself so that you can’t accuse me of not knowing you.”

“You-- you want to learn about me?”

“I’m here, aren’t it? Giving you a chance?”

“Yeah,” Draco smiles, “You are.” (This is real this is real.)

* * *

Draco was never taught to share food, Harry learns.

(“Sharing is caring!” The bright-eyed boy protests, which makes Draco laugh and claim that really, he has never understood that muggle expression. Harry explains.)

Harry steals most of Draco’s fries. (“It’s not stealing,” he claims, “it’s _sharing_.”)

Draco has a flat on the other side of London, Harry learns, that he has painted himself and that is a rather sore sight to the eyes.

“It’s all antique furniture,” Draco explains. “Not very masculine, I suppose.”

And so they start bickering about whose flat is less of a bachelor pad.

(“I only have a couch and some glass tables I moved from Sirius’ house,” Harry says. “That is textbook bachelor pad,” Draco argues.)

“So you live alone?” Harry says. They are both on their third beers; Draco has warned Harry that he is a bit of a lightweight, which makes Harry laugh. “No boyfriends?”

“None that were serious enough.”

“Maybe they just didn’t like antiques?” Harry guesses.

Draco laughs. “And you, was there anyone serious? Ron?”

Harry snorts. “Not Ron.”

“Yes, he’s living happily ever after with Granger, is he not?”

“I’m not sure if I’d use those words. But they are doing well, yes. And how are Crabbe and Goyle?”

They talk about Draco’s old friends for a while. Without going into details, Draco explains that Goyle’s family was broken into pieces after the war, and that Goyle himself took off for a new life in America. Crabbe, on the other hand, apparently owns a serious of wizarding gyms over town and is a manager in the wizarding boxing league.

Harry’s mouth drops. “Merlin,” he says, “Wizards box?”

Draco laughs. “You have no idea.”

“With their hands?” Harry asks.

“And their wands. Have you really never heard of this? It’s very popular in America. Though Durmstrang turns out of the most pro fighters, I believe.”

“You’ll have to take me sometime,” Harry says.

Draco raises his eyebrows. “Someone is very confident in how this date is going.”

Harry takes another one of his fries, and considers it.

“Yeah,” he says. “I am. Is that okay?”

“You don’t sound so confident now,” Draco says.

“I’m not. Are you going to answer the question?”

Draco smiles. (It looks like his smirk, like a plastic rose looks like the real one. Like a smirk but so much better.)

“Oh look,” he says. “The onion rings are here.”

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Harry mutters to himself. Because the space between them feels light now, feels smaller than it ever has. Because things look like they might be finally working out.

* * *

They share a pint. (Harry drinks most of it.) They joke about how they should have waited to do this when they don’t have to work tomorrow. Harry jokes about taking a Hangover Day; Malfoy has never been brave enough to do one. (“Brave,” he says, “Is just another word for _risky_.” And Harry can’t even argue with that.)

“So,” Malfoy says. They are about to get into cabs and go the opposite way. It’s too late to share one, too bad Malfoy’s flat is all the way across town.

“So,” Harry says.

They are both thinking the same thing. It’s that moment at the end of a date, it’s how you hold your breath and wonder if you will be going home having kissed.

“So,” Malfoy says again.

Harry laughs. “Yeah, Draco?”

Malfoy can’t help but smile as his name rolls off the other boy’s tongue, so much easier now.

“In… dating scenarios,” Harry starts, “how do you feel about someone else making the first move?”

It’s not a guy-kiss-girl situation, and they both know this.

“I feel like it’s best to go 50-50,” Draco says honestly. (Because he doesn’t know what to say, but he has to say something. Because this moment is the climax of the night and it can only be described as _fleeting_.)

“What if we bump heads?” Harry says.

It makes Draco laugh, for some reason.

“Potter,” he says, "that’s all we’ve ever done.”


End file.
